It’s kind of sad when the enmity between family members seems to drag everyone else into it, even if they don’t want to go there, but somehow feel loyalty requires it.  It might make you not even know the whereabouts of people, or I don’t know.

Yesterday through a google search I learned my nephew, Mark Richard Preston, died five years ago of cancer.  Mark was a year older than I, and grew into a tall, very handsome, blond haired, green eyes character that the young Val Kilmer reminded me somewhat, with whom, while both of us barely in our twenties, would get into fierce sparring and debate.  This made me very sad.  From his obituary I learned he was happily remarried and had a successful career in real estate in Texas.  I also learned that his father, whom I only knew as Frank, was actually named Benjamin Franklin Preston.  I love when men are named Benjamin Franklin.  My half-sister, his mother, Shirley Yvonne Frois Preston was also mentioned.  He was my father’s grandson.

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